Away from pesky leeches and from
Broken, sad walls,
I strive towards the centre.

Voices are hidden from fallen, spavined horses,
And echoes draped in robes of
Mutiny fly past.

The centre retains the pith of silence.
Heart-murmurs celebrate the only known
Altercation between impediments and strife.

Silence. Cavalcades of clouds and rings of
Spring float and ripple. Such breath, whim and epochal
Drift beckon softly on silence.

I lean back and inhale the vapour of quietude.